


Nocturnal Admissions

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Teenlock, teen!lock, we're going to assume they're both of age, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Middle-of-the-night smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturnal Admissions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon ask on tumblr: "do you still want prompts? if so, could you do something with teenlock, where sherlock and john are sharing a room, but in separate beds, and one of them wakes up to hear the other either masturbating or having a wet dream."
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely charlottedsweb.

John Watson rolled onto his side, pulling his duvet up over his shoulder. He’d had a nightmare and was now wide awake. He stretched, taking in the dark cast of the dorm room, the distant street-light streaming into his window. Somewhere down the hall he heard a laugh, the inevitability of someone staying up well past lights-out.

Below him, in the bottom bunk, Sherlock exhaled a long, sleepy breath, having finally succumbed to the demands of his body. The toll of exhaustion finally outweighed the amount of caffeine he’d kept in his system the past few days. John shifted just enough to peer over the rail of his bed, but he couldn’t see Sherlock below--he tended to curl up close to the wall, tight in the fetal position.

John rolled back over to stare at his ceiling; he could imagine his roommate, mouth slack, the usual austerity of his features smoothed with sleep. He’d seen it once before, the last time Sherlock had an insomniac-jag that lasted three days. By the end of it Sherlock been irascible and punch-drunk, wobbling on his feet from exhaustion, and John had all but sat on him to get him still long enough to fall prey to his “transport.” John closed his eyes, envying Sherlock’s nightmare-free sleep.

“Hnnnn,” Sherlock moaned, soft and low.

John’s eyes flew open. Maybe it wasn’t as nightmare-free as John had assumed.

But then came a rustle, and another sleepy grunt, and the springs of the mattress creaked. Then again. And again, until they became a languid rhythm. Sherlock’s breathing was heavier now.

John’s eyes widened in the darkness-- _no,_ he thought. _There’s no way he’s--_

But the evidence presented a strong case. Sherlock was having a wet dream.

Embarrassment for Sherlock--who had always been a very closeted, secretive person--and John’s own sympathetic desire stirred in his stomach. The first faint rush of arousal stirred, too, elsewhere.

John closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds coming from below him, ignoring the lust that spiked through him when Sherlock moaned again.

It wasn’t that John wasn’t attracted to Sherlock--quite the opposite, actually. But he’d seen the way Sherlock had shot down other hopeful classmates--namely a girl named Molly--and he didn’t want to lose both his roommate and his best mate in one fell swoop.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured below him.

John opened his eyes again, his heart hammering in his ears, completely unable to deny the effect Sherlock’s dream was having on him. The fine edge of guilt at the periphery of his arousal only honed it, made it sweeter, and by the time John let his hand wander down beneath his covers to slip under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, he was half-hard just listening to his bunkmate.

 _I shouldn’t be doing this,_ he thought.

_He’s right below me._

_He could wake any moment, and he would_ know _I’m-- I’m--_

John stifled a moan as his fingertips traced along the length of his cock, electricity sparking through him like a circuit completed. He screwed his eyes shut, listening intently to Sherlock’s noises, a firm grip and a steady motion coming easily to him.

“Please,” Sherlock, still asleep, slurred.

The way his voice rumbled below John, terminating in a desperate sort of plea, had John’s hands, his legs shaking with need. He stilled his hand and pushed up into his fist. 

“Fff--” he bit his lip to contain the noise.

He was close to the edge when it registered just how loudly his own springs were creaking, and suddenly paranoid, he stopped, stilled himself to listen below for sounds that Sherlock went undisturbed.

The lower bunk was silent.

Panic began to replace desire, sharpening his senses, and he held his breath, listening to hear if Sherlock was asleep or if John had indeed woken him up.

In the silence that followed, John almost didn’t hear the faint words his flatmate murmured next.

“Gh--don’t stop, please, don’t stop--”

John’s head swam as desire and panic warred with each other--had he been found out? And if he had, was this invitation to continue?

Or was Sherlock still asleep, speaking to some nameless dream-person?

There was only one way to find out. John squeezed his eyes tight again, courage against his next act. “Sherlock?’ It came out a voiceless whisper.

No answer. It was possible Sherlock hadn’t heard him, so he tried again, a little louder. “Sherlock?”

Silence pounded against his ears as there remained no answer.

But then, “Yes, John?”

John’s pulse surged again, and he tightened his hand reflexively around his cock. No, no, he had to be cool. Surely there was some third option he wasn’t seeing.

Then feeling like he’d made a breakthrough he asked, “Did I wake you with my shifting around?”

He was answered by a low chuckle. “I’ve been awake this whole time.”

John closed his eyes, dread sinking his stomach, withering the remains of his libido. “I’m sorry, I--”

“John?”

The way Sherlock said his name made John open his eyes again: higher-pitched than usual, hopeful and cautious.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to stop,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice still so much more cautious than John had ever heard it in the daylight. “You--you started because you heard me. You could continue, or you could--um--”

But at this point John had already released his hold on himself, slipped his hand free from his pyjama bottoms. He hopped down from his bunk, not even bothering with his ladder.

“--Oh!” Sherlock finished.

John could barely see his outline in the darkness, though his eyes and teeth glinted, catching the faintest rays of the street-light, blocked as it was by the posts of his bunk. Sherlock’s usually unruly hair was tousled with sleep. John kneeled on his bed, and Sherlock sat up to face him.

“You did that on purpose?” John asked, though his voice came out a whisper.

Sherlock merely nodded, his eyes fixed on John’s.

“And then you heard--”

Again, Sherlock nodded, though this time a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“And you want--”

“Whatever you want,” Sherlock answered.

“You do?” John asked, as surprised as he was pleased.

“Of course I want you, John.”

John didn’t waste any more time with words. He leaned forward, brushing his lips tentatively against Sherlock’s. When Sherlock pressed forward, returning the offer, John surged, driving Sherlock backward until his head hit the pillow, and John lifted a knee over in order to straddle his flatmate. This came with the added advantage of John’s cock brushing the still-firm length of Sherlock’s, and that knowledge nearly broke John’s brain.

_That’s Sherlock’s--oh, oh god--_

“Fuck,” he breathed, and snogged Sherlock again.

He rocked his hips to grind against Sherlock, who hissed and scrabbled to clutch at his waist with taloned fingers. The way Sherlock clutched at him sent a spike of lust straight through him, tightening in his stomach. He lifted and pulled his hips back just enough to line his cock along Sherlock’s through the tented fabric of pyjama bottoms, and the heat that radiated from Sherlock was enough make him dizzy again with _want._

He grunted, and this time Sherlock took the lead, setting a rhythm that had the two of them desperately groping and grinding against one another in the darkness of their room, until the creak of springs and the pant of breath filled the room in the late-night silence. Sherlock’s lean, muscular stomach peeked from beneath his rucked t-shirt, and John wanted--no, _needed_ to push the fabric up further, exposing Sherlock’s pale, skinny chest, his nipples hardened beneath John’s fingers. Sherlock bucked upward into his touch, nearly faltering in his rhythm.

“Your fucking body,” John grunted, and leaned in to fasten his mouth to one; he licked and sucked until Sherlock clutched the back of his head, pressing John against him, whimpering for _more._

“We should have been doing this months ago,” Sherlock panted.

This little revelation was too much for John, who was still, in the recesses of his mind, still unable to comprehend that he was actually with Sherlock right then, doing exactly what they were doing. He worked his hips erratically, desperate to stoke the fire inside him until it roared in his blood.

“So close,” Sherlock whimpered.

“Christ.” John pulled back from Sherlock’s chest, bucking again, his motion stuttered and frantic, Sherlock matching him push for pull. John grabbed Sherlock’s right had from its vice-grip at John’s waist, where Sherlock held on for leverage, and twined Sherlock’s fingers with his own, before pressing it into the bed over Sherlock’s head, bearing down just as the tension inside John finally snapped, his abdomen contracting in shuddering jerks as he rode through his orgasm. The motion triggered Sherlock, who followed suit, his nails digging into John’s skin, his breathy cry in John’s ear, ineffectually muffled as Sherlock bit his lip to stifle it.

They lay still for several long minutes, merely breathing and recovering their senses, until the cooling semen in their pyjama bottoms finally made them shift, in order to get cleaned up. John rolled off of Sherlock and stumbled across their neat dormitory floor to their hampers, grabbing a discarded item of clothing for each of them to clean themselves with.

Cleaned and bottoms changed, John started to climb his ladder, when Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Yeah?” John asked.

Sherlock said nothing, merely turned his blankets down in offer.

John grinned, and got off his ladder, before curling up beside his roommate. His sheets smelled like Sherlock’s shampoo, and faintly of sweat from their exertions. “I can’t stay here all night, of course, in case someone comes in first thing in the morning. But I’ll stay as long as I can.”

Sherlock grunted his approval, casting a lanky arm and leg over John’s side, wrapping them around him as if to snare him in place, before kissing him. John returned the kiss, and settled against the comfortable weight bearing down on him. They would have to talk about this in the morning, of course, but dawn felt like light-years away, and for now, John was content with this.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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